


Love to Love You, Baby

by zjofierose



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bard the Barman, Cunnilingus, Cute, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hook-Up, Smut, everyone has a good time, musician!Tauriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: There's no summary for this; it's just smut. Like, really, it's just two consenting adult fantasy creatures having a mutually enjoyable time. Also, Bard's concoctions will fuck you up, because of course they would.





	Love to Love You, Baby

“Musician?” the man asks, sidling up next to her at the bar, and Tauriel's far enough into her third Barman's Special that it takes her a minute to realize he's addressing her.

“Eh?” she says, squinting down at the top of his dark head as he hops onto the stool to her immediate right. It's neither clever nor charming, but she's here to drown her sorrows, not pull, so who cares?

He gestures at her hand on her mostly empty glass with a smile that could make a baby coo. “Musician?” he asks again.

It's not till he touches her fingers with his that she realizes she's been tapping along unconsciously with the beat of the shitty dubstep thudding from the overhead speakers, but she laughs as she catches on, and nods. “Yeah. Well,” she scowls, remembering why she's here, “trying to be, anyway.”

The man flags down Bard, making an intricate set of fast hand gestures that the barman clearly recognizes, because he nods and reaches for a clean glass and a bottle. Tauriel feels for a moment like she should probably care that this stranger is infiltrating her personal space, but he's awfully cute, really. And she can always tell him to fuck off later if she needs to; she's never had trouble doing that.

“That sounds like a story. What happened?” Bard sets the man's drink in front of him, and he leans in, white teeth showing in his cheerful grin. 

“Ugh,” Tauriel says succinctly, and downs the last of her drink. She shakes her head to clear the haze a bit, then shoves the empty glass across the bar. “Well, I'm in this band, see.”

The man nods solicitously, dark eyes crinkling adorably at the corners. “What kind of band? Pop? Punk? Heavy metal?”

Tauriel channels all the Legolas snootiness she can summon, sticks her chin dangerously high in the air, and answers him as nonchalantly as possible. “We're more of a post-thrash prog-influenced metal band, with slight diversions into neo-pop and with a solid classical influence.”

“Ah, hmm.” The man buries his broad grin in the mouth of his glass, and he gets points, Tauriel thinks, for not laughing his ass off or immediately walking away. He's either desperate or has a decent sense of humor. 

“And what happened with this band of yours,” he gestures at her empty glass and its forlorn siblings on either side, “which necessitated drinking your way through three of Bard's concoctions?” he shudders slightly.

“Hey, now,” she points a finger at him, well, in his general direction, “I'll not hear a word against the man who is getting me drunk.”

“A sound policy, milady,” he nods obsequiously, “may I buy you another?”

“You may!” She smiles broadly at him, resting her elbow on the counter as the room tips slightly to one side. Her evening is looking up indeed. She's solidly tipsy, but not yet as drunk as she'd like to be, and the fact that Bard has not come and hulked scarily at the guy, plus the way Bard had signaled with him earlier, means he's a buddy of the barman's, and not someone Bard is concerned about behaving badly. Also, this guy is cute, and willing to buy booze. “And,” she leans in, and has to brace her hand on his knee in order not to fall off her stool, “thank you...?”

“Kíli.” His smile is broad and dimpled, and the thigh under her palm is warm, wide, and very solid. He waves a hand at Bard again, who looks amused as Kíli gestures at her empty trio and holds up one thick finger, dropping a bill on the counter.  

“Thank you, Kíli,” she says, and lets her hand linger. He's close enough to her that she can feel the heat of his body. He's short, but sturdy and strong-looking, and she's towered over men since she was twelve, so height’s hardly a deal-breaker. 

Bard sets her drink in front of her, and suddenly she's done with all the playing. She's had a long fucking day, full of drama and whining and too many people not saying what they want. She picks up her glass and chugs it, dropping it back down to the wooden bar with a clunk. Kíli is laughing uproariously when she turns back to him, his face full of delight. She cups her hand around his cheek and smiles, dragging her fingers back into his long, thick, dark hair and watching his eyes close in pleasure. 

“Shall we?” she asks, suddenly unsure in spite of herself what his answer may be.

His eyes flicker open, gleaming with pleasure, and he captures her hand and brings it slowly to his mouth, never breaking their gaze. “As my lady likes,” he says, and slides easily off the barstool, bowing as she rises, but not loosing her fingers. 

She stands, only swaying a little as the world rights itself around her, grateful for his grip on her hand. She can see him eyeing her carefully, so she looks at him seriously for a moment. 

“I am plenty sober enough to know what I want,” she says, and he smiles appreciatively, and gosh, he really is short, she thinks as she straightens up to her full height. Still more than handsome enough to make up for it though, and there's none of the arrogance in his manner that suggests he feels he has anything to compensate for, which is refreshing. She spends far too much time around far too many men who are compensating for far too much; Kíli's open, honest, and friendly face is a breath of fresh air. “And what I want is a distraction. Are you a distraction, Kíli?”

Kili winds his broad arm around her waist as they head for the door, and she feels delicate in ways she never does with the artist-thin men she usually beds. He slides his hand into her pocket and ushers her out the door, the heat of his body loosening her muscles where she’s pressed up against him.

“My lady,” he promises, “you won’t be able to remember what I’m distracting you from by the time I’m finished.”

\--

She lives only a five minute walk from the bar, which is one reason it’s always been her watering hole of choice, and she barely notices the time it takes for them to return, too caught up in the feel of Kíli's hand in her pocket, the way his shoulder fits under her armpit, the faint scent of his shampoo wafting on the night air. 

They climb the rickety stairs to her apartment, but before she can fish her keys out of her pocket, he turns her and presses her into the door, his broad shoulders boxing her in, but carefully leaving enough space that she could push away if she wanted. His dark eyes glint in the streetlight, and he’d be devilishly handsome even if she weren’t tipsy, all thick black hair and wide, smiling mouth.

She sets her hands on his chest, letting her fingers curl up and over his collar bones, and he takes it for the encouragement it is, reaching up to catch her chin in one large hand and pull her mouth down to his. Her eyes slide closed at the touch of his lips; he kisses just as well as his sure smile and tight jeans said he would, and she loses herself in the sensation of his tongue against hers, the pull of his hand against her hair. 

He breaks away after a moment, and she’s breathing hard but he’s not even flushed, and that is manifestly unfair, she thinks, picturing him with his long hair mussed and color in his cheeks. 

“I’m afraid,” he says ruefully, slipping a hand into her pocket and fishing out her keys without looking away from her face, and Tauriel is just dying over how ridiculously smooth this guy is, “that you have me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

“Oh?” She nicks the keys from his hand and slips them home, the door unlocking with a gentle click before swinging open in front of her, “which one?” 

She turns back in time to see him laugh again, his eyes dancing as he follows her in, closing the door behind him. 

“Well, judging from the wide selection of weaponry hanging on your walls,” he gestures to her knives and bow conspicuously displayed above her dining room table, “more of them than I had realized. Are you an assassin, beautiful woman whose name I still don’t know? Should I be texting my brother where to pick up my corpse in the morning?”

It’s a joke, but the idea of him still being in her apartment in after sleeping sends an unexpected flush through her body, and she bites her lip, reaching out for him again and pulling him by his belt loops toward her. He goes happily, wrapping his arms around her waist and tipping his head forward to drag his nose against the skin along the edge of her v-neck. His breath on the bareness of her breast has her clutching at the back of his head, then fumbling at the buttons on his shirt front as he laughs into her slight cleavage and grabs at her ass to hold her upright against him.

“Tauriel,” she gets out in between shoving his freshly unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders and appreciatively fondling his impressively muscled arms, “my name is Tauriel.”

“ _ Tauriel _ ,” he says, and she hadn’t really noticed the slight accent before, but the way he says her name makes it sound like he’s speaking another language, and it’s lovely, foreign and earthy in a way she’s never heard it before. He leans up to kiss her lips, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt in silent question, and she’s abruptly glad that she wore her lacy bra this morning instead of her usual plain one as she makes affirmative sounds into his mouth. Then there’s the wafting coolness of the air moving around her as he pulls her shirt smoothly up and off, dropping it somewhere in the darkened room as she steers them across to her bed. His hands come up to cup her breasts, and she moans at the size and warmth of them, the rough texture of his fingers against her skin contrasting with the gentle pressure he uses as he rubs a thumb across her nipple. 

“And the knives?” he asks playfully, his deft fingers making short work of the clasp of her jeans. “I could imagine that you might be able to play tunes on a bowstring, but I’ll admit I’m curious what a musician is doing with throwing daggers.”

“Day job,” she says as she kicks the legs of her jeans off over her feet, grateful both for the warmth of the night and the streetlights shining through her windows and illuminating his shape as she strips him efficiently of his undershirt. “Park service. Teaching bow-hunters the ropes with a side of self-defense classes, plus too many years in the SCA.”

“A true renaissance woman,” he says, and she’d worry he was teasing her if he didn’t sound genuinely delighted. “Will you teach me?”

There it is again, she thinks faintly, the assumption that this is more than just a casual hook-up, and she can’t decide what she thinks of that, but then he’s bending forward to fasten his mouth onto her breast, and she stumbles backward against the bed, her head spinning as he sets his teeth against the lace. 

“Sure,” she mumbles, and it’s ridiculous how she can feel him smile against her, and even more ridiculous how much she likes the shape of it already. She likes the shape of it even more, she finds, when she can trace it with her own mouth, and feel his smile pressed to her own.  “You?” she asks breathlessly when their mouths part again after a moment, her hands busy with his belt.

“Blacksmithing,” he answers, and pushes her gently against the edge of the bed, one arm at her back to lower her down as her knees give way, “the family business. I work with my uncle and brother; we built Bard’s distilling equipment a few years back.”

That explains the personal connection, she thinks, biting her lip as he sinks to the floor in front of her, and also the marvelous span and shape of his shoulders and chest. The ambient light casts his face in shadow as he uses his elbows to spread her knees, but she can still see the flash of his grin as he leans forward. 

“Music on the side,” he says, and she can’t help but ask, intrigued, “What kind?”

He grins at her as she hooks her toes in the back of his loosened jeans and shoves them down to the floor, his breath warm on her inner thighs, his smile mischievous.

“Disco,” he answers, and her laugh is swallowed up in the moan she lets loose as he runs his tongue across the damp cloth of her underwear. She would like to say that she  _ intends  _ to fall backward onto the bed, but that would not be entirely true. He just chuckles, the vibrations making her groan, and carefully folds one long leg up so that her heel is on the bed, then drapes the other over his shoulder, the calluses on his strong hands dragging against her thighs. 

He does then exactly as he promised, driving her to distraction and beyond. His mouth is warm and clever, and his sense of patience is as valuable as his dexterity, his motions timed exquisitely to bring her to the brink and ease her back, letting her ride the waves of sensation without any hint of rush or any touch of urgency beyond her own. His hands wander her body, moving from her breasts to circle her waist, to press firmly into the small of her back as he changes the angle and makes her groan. She can’t remember the last time someone focused this much attention on her, and she revels in it, the warmth of the alcohol in her veins letting her relax enough to take her pleasure as it rises, gasping and clutching at him as she likes. She comes, finally, all at once, her entire body tightening, muscles pulling and arching her like a bowstring as she shouts her release to the darkened ceiling. She falls limp after, cords cut, her heart racing and the sweat cooling on her bare skin as he runs soothing hands over her legs. She has the funny thought that he’s calming her somehow, that his presence is steady as rock, dependable as earth and just as warm.

“By all the gods,” she manages after a moment, and he lifts his head from where he’s rested it against the curve of her hip, “I’d worry about inflating your ego, but it’s deserved.”

This time his smile is sweet, almost wistful, and she thinks it’s funny that he’s saved it for now. “Happy to be of service,” he says, and she realizes suddenly that he must think her selfish, lying here like this in the afterglow, ignoring any thought of reciprocation. 

“Come here,” she says, and reaches for him, pulling him up onto the bed beside her. “Let me…”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and she can tell he’s entirely sincere, his strong arms pulling her close against his chest, “this is good, too.”

“Let me,” she says again, and traces her cool fingers across his shoulder, up to his jawline and down to the dip in his clavicle. She feels lazy and sated, a faint buzz lingering under her skin, and she wants to explore this funny, beautiful man beside her. “I want to.”

The groan that rips out of him is heartfelt, and he rolls onto his back, pulling her with him so that she’s pressed to his side, leaning up on her elbow and looking down. His body is a marvel, dense and ridged with muscles that must be from the forge. She runs her hands down him and watches in fascination as his jaw works silently, his hands clutching at her and eyes closing. He’s just as thick and and responsive between his legs as he is everywhere else, and her body clenches involuntarily at the thought of thickness inside her. She takes him in her hand instead, and he sighs long and fully as she changes her grip and begins to move. 

“Tauriel,” he whispers, and she bends down to kiss him, losing herself in the taste of his mouth and the smell of his skin, letting her hand and body move in their own instinctive patterns. He manages the presence of mind to slide a hand back between her legs, and she hadn’t realized she had any energy left, but it turns out that it doesn’t take much to rock her hips back and forth against his finger in the same rhythm that she’s using with her hand. 

In spite of their leisurely pace, it’s not long before their kisses devolve into shared breaths and their bodies press together with a new urgency before grabbing at each other and holding tight as Tauriel’s hand grows warm with Kíli's release even as her own thighs lock shut and shudder around his fingers. 

They fall apart, but only enough to each settle onto their backs. Tauriel thinks idly of getting up to wash her hand, and then just rubs it onto the sheet instead, making Kili chuckle under his breath. He pulls her toward him, and succeeds in rolling them both in such a way that they’re right-side-up on the bed and that the sheet is freed, which he flips over them before tucking her against his body. He gives off heat like a furnace, and she’s going to be sweating like a pig come morning, but the weight of his arm across her midsection is comforting, and the way his knees press behind hers while his forehead rests between her shoulder blades is familiar in ways it shouldn’t be. She likes the way he smells, she thinks, and drops off to sleep before she can consider him further.

\--

She wakes in the morning to the blissful feeling of the sun shining on her skin, and stretches luxuriantly from her fingers to her toes before a terrible noise distracts her and brings her to a seated position, blinking owlishly around her small apartment. 

The shower’s running, she realizes at about the same time that she notices the piles of clothes still on her floor, and smiles, then promptly shoves her fingers in her ears, wincing as the noise comes again. 

Before her fingers can blockade the sounds fully, the truth hits home, and she can’t decide whether to laugh or to cry, and instead settles for falling back onto the bed and shoving a pillow firmly over her head in a vain attempt to muffle the sounds.

Kíli is the worst singer she’s ever heard.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote the first few paragraphs of this literally at least a year and a half ago, and it has languished on my computer ever since. i think it was once going to have slightly more of a plot, but oh well. you know what they say: "perfect" is the enemy of "done".


End file.
